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It’s an inevitable thing, even if deep down he doesn’t want it to be.
It would be so much easier if he could just hate Dazai. Hate him so much that his stomach twists at the mere sight of the other, hate him beyond all words and reasonable emotion allows for.
His stomach twists when he sees Dazai, but it’s not fueled by hatred alone, and Chuuya hates himself for this.
The worst part is, Dazai seems to know this. Maybe that’s why he seems so at ease, standing a few feet away from Chuuya with his hands in his pocket and a goofy grin on his face. His old partner doesn’t seem to have a care in the world.
“I seem to recall telling you that the next time we met, I would put you down.” He says cautiously, keeping his distance from Dazai.
“You did.” Dazai is downright cheerful, and briefly Chuuya feels a familiar stab of exasperation mixed with fondness that he will always associate with his old partner. “You’re too young to be going senile, Chuuya.”
“Asshole!” He snarls on reflex, reaching for his knife. Dazai makes no move to stop him, and it’s just like old times with Dazai teasing Chuuya and Chuuya blustering about with idle threats and swears.
The weight of the blade in his hand grounds him to the reality of the situation. Times of friendship and grudging affection have ended long ago and Dazai is nothing more now than a threat that needs to be put down. “I will kill you Dazai.” It’s not really a threat, not really a warning, but it needs to be said out loud none the less.
The taller man smiles and holds his arms out wide in a gesture of compliance. Chuuya takes a deep breath to steady himself-and then lunges forward, knife flashing through the air.
Dazai doesn’t move.
Chuuya has killed before in his life and he’ll certainly kill after today. But he’s never killed someone quite like this.
With no resistance, the knife plunges deep into Dazai’s body, right between his ribs and pierces his heart. Chuuya’s hand is trembling around the handle of the knife, but he manages to get himself together enough to pull it back swiftly from Dazai’s chest. It slides out in one fluid motion, stained a dark red with the other’s blood.
The knife in his hand is suddenly too heavy for him to hold, his powers be damned. It falls from his hand, clatters to the floor with a sound that is obnoxiously loud in the silence of the room, and skids away from them.
“Is that how you treat my gift to you?” For someone who is bleeding out, Dazai’s voice is remarkably calm and steady. If it weren’t for the blood that is slowly blooming from the wound staining the other’s light blue dress shirt and saturating his vest, Chuuya would have said that he had actually missed his attack.
“Everything connected to you is trash.” He says, but his voice is hollow even to his own ears. Dazai’s knees buckle and instinct has Chuuya moving forward to brace him.
A gunshot rings out.
He's not even surprised. The way it works with Dazai, being surprised and taken advantaged of is the norm; it's anything outside of that becomes concerning. He had known that this whole situation was strange, that Dazai would never willingly let himself be killed (he had asked once before, years ago, and the answer he had gotten? 'Because what's the fun in that Chuuya?'). So, in retrospect, while he's a bit upset that his emotions have gotten the better of him again, he's not surprised that Dazai had something up his sleeve.
This doesn't make being shot any less painful.
Chuuya is glad that he had been so close to Dazai, because the pain and shock makes his knees go weak and he collapses against the other. Dazai moves so that his arms are circled around the smaller male, and the two of them slide down to the floor slowly, left in an awkward sort of kneeling embrace. He hadn't even seen Dazai pull the gun out-yet again, the asshole has one-upped him. From what he can tell, he's been shot on his left side, his injury a mirror image of Dazai's. It would figure that bastard would want to be poetic about it.
When Chuuya gathers the strength to look up at Dazai, he finds the other staring at him, brown eyes warm and more unguarded than Chuuya has ever seen them before. He wants to be mad, wants to scream at the other, wants to take his revenge, but he just can't and so he doesn't.
Instead, he sighs softly and lets his head fall onto Dazai's shoulder. “I thought you didn't carry your gun on you anymore.” It's less of a question, more of an observation.
The firearm is tossed to the side; it clatters across the ground and comes to rest near Chuuya's knife. Dazai readjusted his grip on the other, shifting them into as comfortable of a position as their wounds will allow.
“But how could I commit a double suicide without it?” He asks softly, and through his pain Chuuya quirks an eyebrow at his old partner.
“Has the definition of suicide changed recently?” He mutters, and he feels Dazai's frame shake with laughter. The laughter quickly turns into a grunt of pain and then into a quiet gasp of air.
“I'm taking artistic liberties.” Dazai admits when he catches his breath. “I wanted a death with no pain, but things had to be sacrificed to die with the one I love.”
Chuuya has no idea how he should respond to that, so he doesn't. The declaration of love catches him a little of guard, but it's honestly not that far of a stretch. Dazai has always had the most twisted ideals about life and death; the rational part of Chuuya's brain is yelling at him that this whole situation is fucked up beyond all reason, but a smaller part of it (the one that refuses to let him hate Dazai in peace, the one that is probably broken if he's honesty) informs him quietly that Dazai has just given him the highest honor possible and the warmth that floods though him at that thought is not normal but so what.
He curls up closer to the other,
“Dying sucks.” He informs the other his voice steady, and it now even the other part of his brain can't deny how fucked up everything is. But really, what did he expect growing up in the Mafia? Nothing has ever been normal for him so why should death be the exception, he figures.
Dazai chuckles, and his voice is deep and low in Chuuya's ear. “Wouldn't want to do it with anyone else, partner.” He has no way to follow that up, and there's no point in talking anymore, so Chuuya lets his mind drift and tries not to focus on the blood seeping out of his body and the pain radiating from his wound, because if Dazai can suffer in silence, then he damn well can.
In an ironic twist of fate, the two of them are in sync until the very end, unsteady breaths fading out at the same time and eyes (which had been so focused on each other) slipping shut.
*
It doesn't take long for their bodies to be found. The Bosses debate for a while, what to do with them; nothing like this has happened before in the history of the Port Mafia. In the end, it's decided that Mori will be the one to deal with it, as they were both directly under his control.
The funeral for them is short, less of a ceremony and more of a formality. Death is a common occurrence for those who work for the Port Mafia, but still, the event is strange in spite of the numbness to death. There is no triumph tied to Dazai's death, or mourning over Chuuya's; the two have been a package deal for as long as anyone can remember, and the emotions cancel out leaving an overall feeling of hollowness to those who have survived them. And just like that, the infamous team dubbed Double Black is gone.
The two of them are buried side by side.